Page 31

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Nico

I woke up before my alarm. Not because I was well-rested—no, I was still running on dreams and nerves—but because today was the day.

Bradley was getting out.

Two weeks. Fourteen days. One-thousand-and-some change minutes that had crawled by like molasses, every one of them dragging my heart behind it like a busted shopping cart.

And now he was coming home.

Maybe.

I sat up in bed, staring at the ceiling like it owed me answers. The light coming through the window was pale and soft, a morning that felt like a held breath. My apartment was too quiet. And I wanted to change that.

I threw on a t-shirt and wandered into the kitchen, still barefoot. I opened the fridge, closed it, and then opened it again. Nothing had changed. Still eggs, still leftover Thai, still too much La Croix and not enough actual food.

Because here’s the thing: while Bradley was in jail, I went to the Chelsea International Hostel and picked up all his stuff.

That meant two duffel bags, a tragically sad toothbrush, a stack of folded jeans, and one black binder full of parole documents and Boys On Film paperwork that made me want to scream and hug him at the same time.

I carried it all back here. Stuffed it into the closet like it belonged.

And now I was standing in my kitchen thinking:

Does it?

I couldn’t force him to stay here. I wasn’t stupid—I knew how fragile things still were. But there was no way in hell I was letting him walk out of jail and straight back into the idea that he was on his own. That nobody wanted him. That love came with limits.

Because for me? It didn’t.

And yeah, that scared the crap out of me.

Not because I didn’t mean it. But because I did. I meant all of it. I was in this thing, headfirst, heart-first, possibly idiot-first.

I looked around the apartment. I’d cleaned three times yesterday, then lit a candle that smelled like “mountain air and self-delusion.” I even made space in the bathroom cabinet. Like an actual shelf. For his stuff. Which, in gay boyfriend terms, is basically a marriage proposal.

The clock on the microwave flipped to 9:02 AM. His release was scheduled for 10.

I had time to go over the speech I’d practiced in the mirror twice.

You don’t have to stay. I mean, of course I want you to, but only if you want to.

I just figured maybe it’d be easier if you had a place already.

Somewhere to land. Somewhere that wasn’t a half-broken cot in a shared hostel room with a guy named Trevor who wears too much body spray to cover for lack of hygiene.

It wasn’t a perfect speech, but it was honest.

And maybe honesty would be enough.

My phone buzzed on the counter, and I snatched it up like it might change everything.

Jack: We’re parking now. You ready?

I stared at the screen, my stomach doing backflips. Yeah, I was ready.

I was also sweating through my shirt. But I was ready.

I texted back:

Me: Yeah. Let’s bring him home.

* * *

The county jail had all the charm of a DMV run by sociopaths. Jack parallel parked with a dramatic flourish, like we were arriving at a red carpet event instead of a place that smelled like despair and institutional-grade bleach.

“You good?” Liam asked from the backseat, leaning forward between us.

“Nope,” I said, unbuckling anyway. “But I’m doing it.”

Jack turned in his seat and gave me a crooked grin. “You look like you’re about to propose to a man fresh out of jail.”

I shot him a look. “Don’t tempt me.”

We waited just outside the exit. Me pacing, Jack tapping his foot, and Liam scrolling TikTok with an intensity usually reserved for defusing a bomb. I was practically vibrating out of my sneakers. Any second now.

And then, there he was.

Bradley stepped out, flanked by two guards.

No cuffs. No orange jumpsuit, thank God.

Just his old jeans, a gray hoodie, and that cautious little squint he got when he stepped into sunlight — like he didn’t quite trust the world not to slap him again.

His hair was a mess. His face was tired. He looked perfect.

I moved without thinking. Just went.

His eyes locked on mine, and he broke into the smallest smile, the kind that cracked something open in my chest and let every bit of light pour in.

I didn’t tackle-hug him, which felt like personal growth. But I did wrap my arms around him, tight, not even caring how clingy it looked. I felt him exhale into my shoulder, like he’d been holding his breath for weeks.

“Hi,” he whispered, voice scratchy.

“Hey,” I said. “You’re out.”

He pulled back just enough to look at me. “You really came.”

“I said I would.”

Jack honked the horn. “Alright, Riker’s Romeo, bring your man to the car before we all start crying out here.”

Bradley laughed. It was quiet, hoarse, but real. That sound was worth everything.

Liam popped the back door open, and Bradley climbed in. I slid in next to him, our knees touching. Jack pulled out of the lot and hit the road like we were making a prison break.

“So,” Liam said, glancing back with a grin, “do we call you Jailbird now or wait for the tattoos?”

“Already planning your teardrop tattoo?” Jack added. “Maybe one for every time you punched that dude’s ass.”

Bradley snorted. “You two are idiots.”

“Free idiots,” Liam said cheerfully.

“I liked you better when I was behind bars,” Bradley muttered, but he was smiling. Really smiling. His fingers brushed mine on the seat, and I didn’t move away.

The city rolled past the windows, summer sunlight casting everything in that golden-movie-trailer glow. Traffic was light. The world felt different. Brighter. Or maybe that was just me, high on the fact that he was next to me, breathing the same air, and not locked away.

We were quiet for a while, the good kind. Comfortable. Like the hum of something you don’t want to name just yet.

Then Bradley spoke, softly but clearly. “Hey. Are we heading back to the hostel?”

I looked at him, heart flipping.

“No,” I said.

He blinked, turning his head just enough to catch my expression. “Then… where are we going?”

Jack slowed the car and turned onto my street. “Home, obviously,” he said casually.

Liam chimed in from the back. “Unless you’d prefer a bunk bed and a communal bathroom with a mysterious black mold colony.”

Bradley frowned. “Wait. Whose home?”

I didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

Because right then Jack pulled up in front of my building. Bradley didn’t move. He looked at me again, slower this time, eyes full of something warm and complicated and cautious.

I didn’t push. I just said, “Come upstairs.”

He hesitated for half a second, then nodded.

We took the stairs.

Not because the elevator was broken, but because I had too much energy to stand still.

Bradley didn’t complain, just followed behind me, one step at a time, like he wasn’t sure if this was real.

I kept glancing back to make sure he was still there.

I unlocked the door and pushed it open, heart pounding like it wanted to climb out of my chest and hug him itself.

He stepped inside slowly, like it might vanish if he moved too fast. I watched him take it all in—my couch, my terrible framed movie posters, the crooked lamp I still hadn’t fixed, the coffee cups I forgot to rinse out.

The air was thick with the scent of the candle I lit earlier, the one I bought for no good reason that now smelled like a whole new life.

Bradley turned in a slow circle, and then he looked at me.

I didn’t say a word.

I just stepped forward, grabbed him by the front of his hoodie, and kissed him.

Hard.

Like I’d been waiting my whole life to do it without fear, without guilt, without glass or bars or countdown clocks. I kissed him like a promise. Like I was trying to pour everything I hadn’t been able to say into his mouth and hope he understood.

He kissed me back with everything he had.

When we finally broke apart, breathless and clinging, I rested my forehead against his.

“Live with me,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “Please. I know it’s fast. I know it’s a lot. But I don’t want to waste any more time pretending I don’t want you here. This is your home—if you want it.”

He didn’t answer right away.

He just looked at me. Eyes wide, full of something raw and disbelieving, like I’d handed him the moon and asked if he wanted it.

Then he nodded.

“Yes,” he said, voice cracking. “I want it. I want you.”

The words hit me like a tidal wave. Relief, joy, disbelief. I laughed—this wild, giddy sound I didn’t even recognize—and then kissed him again, softer this time, smiling against his mouth like an idiot.

“I love you,” I murmured, my lips brushing his.

He looked stunned for a second. And then he whispered it back.

“I love you, too.”

Just like that.

Like it was simple. Like it were true.

Like maybe this time, we were both finally free.